


Carnal

by thegoodgirl



Category: Dexter (TV)
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, F/M, Pseudo-Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 19:27:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7858108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegoodgirl/pseuds/thegoodgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The common bond of siblings is one of nature's most powerful relationships.</p><p>A Dexter/Deb fic I wrote for 2008's Porn Battle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carnal

**Author's Note:**

> This work was written in August 2008 for oxoniensis' sixth Porn Battle on Livejournal (lol remember livejournal? this shows how old I am). The prompt was 'undeniable'. Thought I'd post some old works I'm proud of!

The common bond of siblings is one of nature's most powerful relationships.

I don't remember how it started. I know I shouldn't have wanted it from the start, that I'm being cruel. It's a desire I used to keep buried. Maybe I should have continued. I used to sit back and imagine how it would be. The taste of her smile, the feel of her skin, her scent. The sound of something crashing as we push it off a tabletop with a force. I like doing things the right way. I would never have thought she wanted it until she did. What we're doing, I'm never sure. I handle it the same way I handle everything. Open up, and come inside.  
  
I like the way I imagined she would feel. Not delicate or unsure. I found myself waiting for the moments when we were alone and she was standing with her hands on her sides. Swinging in my chair I imagined it. So did she. I almost felt sorry. I wondered what Rita would think. Rita is the sweet otherwise of my personality, the side I try and welcome hopelessly. Deb is nothing of my personality, and every part it. She's another part of me, a discarded one that became all it could in spite of it. There are many ways in which the two of us could fit together. Which two, I don't know. With Rita I'm striving for some shred of normality and with Deb I'm accepting that I'm not. I think she knows.  
  
My hands can't touch. They lost the ability to function as normal a long time ago. Then it's months later and we're somewhere I'm unsure, doing things I don't know. Balancing upright. My hands don't feel, just reiterate what I'm supposed to, or not. They climb onto her breast and I feel some part of it go tough beneath my hand. I feel her hand on me too. It's not unexpected. Clothes are a distraction, like a chrysalis that falls away. She shuts her eyes when I work my hands into places they shouldn't. Chokes out a sound I've come to welcome. I welcome any sound capable of absorbing the silence.  
  
"Dex, _fuck,_ " she breathes. I find her desperate. I want her in the worst way possible. What I despise about myself is that I continue to go back to her with no discretion. I indulge her. She's an all too powerful drug. There's always the concern that I might be changing the course. I worry she will change because of my undue influence. I worry that I'll attribute to differences in the person she becomes.

I concur with her recommendation. A quick fumble and I push aside, inside. She looks away and gasps with pleasure and pain. A living wonder. What do I like about her? I like the angle and turn of her head, the place where her skeleton converges, the lines of the arteries in her neck. I like the sounds she makes. I trace my tongue along the lines where blood flows underneath her skin and she takes in breath like she's in pain. It shouldn't sound so good. I shouldn't be moving, twisting into her. She makes me dizzy. She drowns in what I'm doing to her as I make my own sounds, a normal reaction without thinking. I'm overwhelmed by the burden of normalcy even when I'm not. We're falling away. Pieces fall upon me like a deep sea diver weighed down by the masses of nothing upon him. She shifts backward on the bench and I fall into her, breathing so hard we might explode. The ends of her hair simmer like electrodes on my arm. I like her scent, her madness, the ways she looks like me. I like her hair.  
  
She's close. I can tell by the way she moves, all rolling eyes and slick of damp upon her skin. Why do we do this when it has the potential to hurt so much? The mystery lies in why we can't stop. How do you make the one person you admire become someone you don't want? The carnal has more in common with what I do then anyone would think. You shift and move, almost slice, and the only thing missing is the blood. I find myself not being able to stop, hesitating and waiting for the dark to come out. Her, my greatest conquest. Me, her biggest puzzle.  
  
I try not to finish until I'm sure she has. I like to watch her. I like to see her tip her head back and show me where her blood flows, her open mouth pronouncing my name to the ceiling. A thumb of mine dragging across her jawbone. My hand in her hair. It's not until she clenches around me that I do it too, falling into the space between her head and her body. I push out breaths with no name. Afterwards I like to inspect my work, her breasts moving up and down from what I did to her. I save pieces of it, souvenirs. I'll save the pin that fell out of her hair, the pencil she dropped on the floor when it started. I think about that while we recover. She's the kind that revels in the after-effects, sits back and drowns in them. I don't try and pretend. I try and attack my way through the euphoria I bring upon myself. Like staving off a powerful drug.  
  
The problem with being human is they do stupid things like this. 


End file.
